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Motor City's windows are concealed by red drapes, but what lies behind them is revealed every five minutes. In these intervals, like clockwork, a go-go dancer pushes them aside and wiggles her dollar-bill-stuffed bikini bottom, summoning you like a siren. Here in this NASCAR-friendly den of sin, rockabilly tunes and hot-rod decorations (salvaged "Detroit" signs, race-car seats, etc.) prevail. And though the sexed-up pit-stop look seems decidedly male-centric, there are nonetheless an equal number of ladies milling around. Perhaps Socrates was right: "Chicks dig fast cars."

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